


Pointless

by SLWalker



Series: Arch to the Sky [36]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Chicago (1995-1998), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-23
Updated: 2011-08-23
Packaged: 2017-10-22 23:58:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/243999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLWalker/pseuds/SLWalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1995: Fraser thinks. Turnbull tries to unpack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pointless

"...So, I thought that... that I might be able to rearrange the files in a manner that would make them easier to access; that is, while the current organization is quite fair, it's... it's simply a little more complex than it needs to be, and I'm certain, sir, that I can find those files you were after if... if I could... could have a moment."

Fraser raised one eyebrow, then the other followed.

The floor of the Consulate was a minefield of stacked folders that Turnbull was in the middle of, babbling in something that could only be labelled _hysteria_ , and it was not a scene that Fraser had really expected to come back to. While it had taken less than a day to figure out that Turnbull was a bit of a strange case, he still hadn't even _conceived_ of the notion that the man would take out every single file in order to rearrange them, all in less than three hours.

"They don't appear to be easily accessible at the moment, Constable," Fraser said, keeping his voice neutral. It wouldn't do to send Turnbull into even more of a frenzy.

"Yes, sir, I'm aware of this, and I'm terribly _sorry_ , I hadn't expected you back so quickly--" Turnbull cut himself off, reaching for one of the stacks and inadvertently knocking over another one in the process. He froze for a long moment, then slowly stood back upright, cradling the files in one arm and flipping through them.

Fraser looked around at the mess again. At least Turnbull wasn't randomly declaring them all top secret, or rambling about conspiracies this time. As mildly irritating as this venture was, especially as Fraser had left that file right where he could grab it again, it was better than feeling as though he was dealing with a madman or was having a joke played on him that he couldn't quite get.

It wasn't that Fraser didn't like Turnbull. It was...

Well, all right. Fraser didn't like Turnbull. He didn't hate Turnbull. He didn't really feel much of anything towards Turnbull, aside irritation, since he'd gotten here. He hadn't had any time to really get to know and like, or not like, their new addition to the staff. Certainly the man had to have some redeeming qualities, but thus far, he'd come across as mostly incompetent. He wasn't very good on the phone, he was jumpy and reactive around the Inspector, he was positively _goofy_ around Fraser, and the only time he'd successfully done anything was when he was stonewalling the FBI over Gerrard. It galled Fraser on some level that he even wanted to praise Turnbull for simply doing his job right.

Fraser did _want_ to like him, though. It wasn't very pleasant working with someone who you didn't like, for one. And Turnbull was only twenty-four; he still had the potential to become a good officer, though Fraser did have to wonder how anyone so eccentric could have made it through Depot. Unless they had severely lowered their standards since his own time, the twenty-four week intensive training should have weeded him _out_. And if not, then something else should have.

Well, maybe something was working on it now. Fraser had come to grow fond of Chicago, but even he couldn't deny that it was considered a punishment detail.

"Here, sir," Turnbull said, wide-eyed and looking like he wanted to sink into the floor or shake apart at the seams.

Fraser took the file, gingerly. "Thank you. The rest of these...?" It wasn't an order, and he didn't phrase it as one. More of a question.

"I'll have them organized in their original configuration before the inspector returns, sir." Turnbull gestured, something not entirely unlike defeat, and then knelt down to start cleaning up the pile of files he'd knocked over.

Fraser looked down at the file in his hand, then carefully put it on the filing cabinet before kneeling to help. "I'll give you a hand."

 

 

The apartment was no more welcoming now than it had been when he paid for it.

Turnbull closed the front door, leaned back against it, and breathed.

It had taken an hour to put those files back, and would have doubtless taken longer, had Constable Fraser not helped, all the while looking cool and composed. Turnbull was coming to recognize that expression: _You're clearly incapable, therefore I'll help._ A maddening form of pity, particularly as it was doubtless _sincere_ ; Fraser no more wanted him bellowed at than Turnbull wanted to be bellowed at.

How that could feel quite so disheartening, he didn't know.

The glowing neon outside cast shadows on the wall from unpacked boxes. The air never smelled right here; he was getting used to it quickly, that constant scent of city, of millions of people packed into a metro area, but it still kept him on edge. He'd been raised practically in Toronto; the constant urbanized smell was something he knew well, but Chicago didn't smell like Toronto, and...

He closed his eyes, clawing his collar open.

 _Enough._ Just... enough. It was pointless to allow Fraser's pity to get to him, if he'd just end up pitying himself anyway. No, Chicago didn't smell right. No, the desk at the Consulate felt entirely like being caught in a trap, and his dress uniform felt like a noose. No, none of it was right, but that had been true before he had received his transfer orders, and as he was the wrong in the situation, there was absolutely no point to pity. Not for himself and not aimed at himself.

He breathed, around that dull and hollow ache, and then slowly got to unbuttoning his tunic.

He would unpack those boxes tonight. He simply _would_. There was no point in delaying it. He would unpack them, arrange everything, make this apartment more comfortable. It was not the first or second time he had to unpack his life, and it was bound to get easier with repetition.

It was four boxes into it before he was curled around his stuffed husky on the wooden floor, clawing at the collar of his t-shirt against an invisible noose and trying to remember how to breathe again.


End file.
